Even, at Zero
by Javanyet
Summary: A pissed off Texas songwriter and a burnt-out production lackey sharing an after-gig hotel room. It's not what you think... but it's getting there. - Reviews welcome!


When the last of the hangers-on had variously flocked or were herded out of the dressing room Bonnie Morris was nearly dead on her feet. She managed to gather the guys' random belongings onto one makeup table and left the rest to be cleaned and/or trashed.

"These go on the bus… and this," she waved a wobbly hand at the room at large, "I don't care. Set it on fire, if you want."

"Okay, Miss Morris. The boss has a cab coming to get you to the party at the guys' suite," one of the roadies informed her. Limos were for revenue-generating stars. Cabs were for the help.

"Tell the boss they can party without me, I'm done." Her boss was Bob Rafelson, the "Ray" half of Raybert Productions and evil genius behind the Monkees TV show creation and production. He often suffered from the delusion that his assistant could spend eighteen hours doing everything that made him look like the hardest working man in show business... then party all night.

She was _more_ done than she could ever remember being since taking this screwy job. Actors hired to play musicians, musicians hired to be actors, and during the taping hiatus the whole schizo act was on the road playing stadium gigs, this night being number three in their current six-city tour. On one side of the seesaw was "the boss" and on the other the actor/musicians and musician/actors, all of whom seemed to be gone to other places while Bonnie, Assistant to Bob Rafelson and playing fulcrum, was left to direct the cleanup. "Assistant to" encompassed everything from coordinating rehearsal schedules and costume fittings to organizing the green room and "talent" logistics for the live gigs, aka getting four teen heartthrobs to dressing rooms and making sure their costumes and everything else was there at the same time. Pretty much anything that would qualify as running someone's life that's not your own. Master Juggler would have been a better title. Then again, it really was all title, no power. Lucky for her that the four guys in question were pretty easy to wrangle. Except for when they all went a little wacko with overwork and not enough mental stimulation. At those times it was hard not to go wacko right along with them. at least until her common sense (and tight schedule) regained control. In reality the only thing she sometimes had a hard time with was the sullen moodiness of that long tall Texan playing lead guitar, Nesmith. His name was Mike, but in the beginning she kept mixing it up with Micky, and it annoyed Mike so much that she just started calling him by his last name. He returned the favor by referring to her thereafter as "Morris".

To be honest, Nesmith was the guy _playing_ the guy who played lead guitar. Therein, Bonnie supposed, lay the sullen moodiness. Bonnie didn't find him "difficult" in the classic sense; at his worst he paid attention, followed instructions, and answered with nods or monosyllabic grunts. What got to her was that she knew exactly _why_ he was a flaming grouch right after almost every script read-through and rehearsal. The other would-be career musician, Peter, was a sweet-natured hippie soul who shared the same issues as Nesmith did; both of them had to mime their instruments as the tape loops played. Having heard the two of them noodle and jam away during breaks in taping, Bonnie knew what a colossal waste it was, hiring musicians to play _musicians_, not music. But it was what it was, and they were there at the same time for the same reason: steady income. Whatever frustrations Peter harbored, for the most part he kept them off the soundstage and far away from his mood, which was usually upbeat, or at least philosophical.

Mike Nesmith, on the other hand, seemed to lack that particular set of channel controls. The show was a success, but it wasn't enough… Nesmith wanted to be a _musical _success and it was driving him crazy that the perfect venue for that, a wildly popular TV show, was what was holding him back. There was something else that made him different, from Peter and Micky and Davy as well, and that was that he seemed to be the only one of the four who actually talked _with_ Bonnie, not _to_ her. Not that the other guys weren't friendly, but that was all business and small pleasantries. Nesmith, when he wasn't under one of his dark clouds, could talk about everything from music (of course) to history to literary imagery and films, and they had almost accidentally developed the habit of sharing snatches of these random conversations during breaks on set, when they crossed paths while waiting for a meeting or similar lulls in craziness. Bonnie found something appealing about this guy, in an everyday kind of way, in spite of the dark clouds. His demons of musical frustration were something she tried to avoid, though. She didn't want to get into taking sides in what was clearly a developing battle. It made sense, sort of, but she didn't get why he couldn't see there was a way to have it both ways if he just gave it a little more time, and she didn't feel it was her place to try to convince him one way or the other. They danced around the edges of the subject now and then, but mostly those times were a one-sided bitch fest that she listened to sympathetically and without much comment.

Ironically (at least she hoped Bob appreciated the irony) the live gigs had been a screaming success – underline 'screaming', her ears were still ringing from it – but all deeper philosophy was crushed beneath exhaustion at the moment, and all she wanted to do right now was to be magically transported to her own hotel room and left the hell alone for the next two days. Thank God, _two_ days in Chicago, okay, a day and a half, but nowhere to go until they flew to Indianapolis for another one night stand. Oh, shit, they did have a press call next day, and she couldn't even remember what time. _Just shoot me. _Dead on her feet? She felt more like she was already decomposing.

Bonnie managed a last request before she collapsed on the dressing room sofa. "Lemme know when the chariot awaits."

"Huh?" grunted some guy who was hauling a wardrobe case.

"The cab. Tell me when the cab gets here, genius." She dropped her head back on the sofa cushions. _Just five minutes, gimme five minutes and I'll be able to move…_

The quiet movement from the doorway didn't get Bonnie's attention. She figured it was someone coming to continue schlepping stuff out. Then the sofa cushions next to her shifted.

"If you're not the Angel of Death here to take me, just go away," she mumbled.

Another shift as someone leaned closer, and a warm mouth was on hers. Open just enough to be soft, but not intrusive, and there just long enough not to be ignored. A whiff of Ivory soap, just enough to remove all doubt of who it was. She'd never known any other man who smelled of Ivory Soap. Okay, she had to admit it was as nice a surprise as a kiss could be without being expected, or entirely welcome. He didn't put his hands on her, what a gentleman. Still, she shoved back with a strength that surprised her.

* * *

><p>"I am too wasted for this game, Nesmith." Eyes still closed, she rummaged in her jeans pocket. "I don't have one on me, but you can bet your Gretsch my business card doesn't feature the word 'groupie'." She opened her eyes, and focused as best she could.<p>

He was still wearing the white stage costume, the lace ascot and collar pulled loose, exposing that lean throat. He slipped the ever-present shades on top of his head, revealing eyes that had to be as bloodshot as hers. He looked plain worn out.

"No game, Morris." His voice was matter-of-fact, but a weak edge gathered as he continued, "And if I was looking for a groupie I sure's shit wouldn't have come here." He raised his right hand, displaying the plain wooden box that had been among the things she'd put on the makeup table. "Came to get my pick box, and there you were. You looked like you could use something."

"'Something'? What made you think of _that_?" she demanded, unconsciously running a thumb under her lower lip. Given the juggling act her life had become in the past year, Bonnie didn't like surprises much. At the moment she most especially didn't like thinking this one was pretty okay, considering. A random, gentle kiss from a quiet, sardonic "fellow-traveler through the existential-looking-glass" (as Peter had once described them all).

Something sharpened in Mike's bleary eyes, and colored his voice. "Beats the hell out of me, now that I think of it." He didn't get up, but slammed back on the sofa and stared at the ceiling, sitting close enough that Bonnie could feel the post-performance heat he was throwing off. "Futility drives a man to strange things."

"'Futility'? You guys sounded great out there."

"Glad _somebody_ could hear it. All we could hear was screaming."

"Doesn't that mean you were a success? You've been wanting to play for real, you are finally doing it, and they are _screaming_ for it."

"Wrong, they're screaming _over_ it. You think they can even hear us playing? They were screaming for the TV show, not the music." He snorted in disdain and sat up suddenly to face Bonnie where she still slouched. "You've worked with music before, that's what Bob said. So why did you sign up to help run a fake-job? You know it could be better... and it wouldn't hurt to have somebody else on our side, somebody Bob might listen to."

She was just not in the mood for this dance right now, so she reminded him pointedly, "The TV show's a success, but you wanted to _play_. So you're playing, and your _gigs_ are a success, but now nobody's _listening_. Jesus." Bonnie rolled her head from side to side but didn't bother to sit up. "One more time: the ad you answered didn't say 'musician wanted' any more than mine said 'music production coordinator wanted.' Bob listens to me, sure, that's why he hired me. To help run his 'fake-job', which by the way is working out better than anyone expected in case you haven't been reading the zeroes on your paycheck. The one thing my War-and-Peace length job description _doesn't_ include is telling him how to run things. So why don't you tell me why _you_ signed up, huh? I'm sure your reasons were completely, _purely_ devoted to your art." She didn't filter her sarcasm, because he hadn't filtered his. When he didn't reply she went on, "We _all_ needed the money, honey, and we all answered the same ad and signed the same contract. Difference is you're the only one who acts surprised that the boss isn't working for _you_."

Mike's whole body seemed to clench. "If I weren't so beat-down dead dog tired, I'd ..." he growled, but didn't finish that thought, ending simply, "I'm tired of everybody, the guys, the crew, _you_, telling me to just shut up and collect my pay."

Finally Bonnie struggled to a sitting position, leaning forward with elbows on knees. She really liked talking with this dry, taciturn Texan. There was something about him that made even a five-minute break feel like serious down-time. And he talked just as if he never expected her not to understand, even when she didn't agree. She didn't want to wreck that if she could help it, because it was something that helped her get through some long crazy days.

"I didn't _say_ that," she pointed out, "even though it's what we all gotta do." He was staring angrily into space, so she leaned around so he'd have to look at her. "If it helps your failing opinion of me, I think it's stupid Bob didn't go one way or the other. Either teach four musicians to act and let 'em play, or just hire four actors to play musicians. Not exactly brain surgery. But no, he signed up two-and-two. Okay, so it works up to a point… your chemistry is great, David sings like a bird, because that was always part of his acting, and Micky is keeping the backbeat just fine because he's a quick study with a good ear. But you and Peter are musicians trapped in the bodies of actors. It's stupid, and it's wasteful, and you knew _exactly_ what you were being hired to do when you signed those stinking contracts, just like I did. Everyone, including Peter, is going with the flow and taking it as it comes. We're getting through the day, all of us except the Man from Dallas. _He's _ banging his head against the wall, and it is not a pretty tune. You guys sounded _great _ tonight, and you did it yourselves. You had it both ways, you were in character, but you played yourselves. Shit, Peter knocked 'em dead with an old timey _banjo_ song! And you can bet Bob heard it over the screaming. That's gonna get through to him if anything will. Anyway, how the hell else you think you'd score a stadium gig without the 'fake-job' to get you there?"

"You assume I needed stadium gigs," Mike challenged coolly.

"Oh, la-de-_da,_" she dismissed with a wave, then added "_You_ assumed I needed a kiss from a pissed off songwriter. So we're even, at zero."

"Done." Mike slid his shades down over his eyes and slouched out again. "Maybe it was me, needed something. Seemed like a good idea at the time. Like a lot of things."

They sat side by side in silence for a few minutes, until Bonnie managed to lever herself from the sofa and reached a hand out to Mike.

"Truce, okay? I think we both _need_ some sleep, cowboy."

"I ain't no cowboy," he corrected, but took her hand anyway and let her pull him to his feet.

"You ain't no _actor_, either."

Mike laughed and slung an arm around Bonnie's shoulders as they made their way to the dressing room door. "Shee-_it_ you can say that again." He waved off the waiting cab driver. "Got a limo, she can ride with me."

* * *

><p>Bonnie couldn't say she was surprised by the knock on the door. She'd barely taken ten minutes to get washed and changed into her pj's, and was literally in midair of the dive onto one of the two enormous beds.<p>

But oh, yeah, she _knew _tonight of all nights wasn't going to end easy.

"_What_!" she called out. She wasn't in the mood to be dragged to the after-party by her boss or anyone else. When no answer came, she managed to stumble to the door of the much-too-big for one person room.

"Okay, _WHO?_ And the hotel better be on fire."

"Nesmith. The hotel ain't on fire, but the party's in our suite and I need somewhere to crash."

"Have you lost your mind? I'll call the desk, we'll get you your own room."

"I tried, they got nothing. I know there's two beds in there. Dammit, Morris, can you at least open the door?"

He _did_ sound like he was ready to unravel. Bonnie opened the door to see Mike looking as fried as he sounded, leaning hard on the doorjamb with one hand. Still in the white suit, minus jacket, the tails of that foolish frilly shirt hanging out. If the word "wretched" required an illustration, it was right there towering over her in hand-stitched boots.

"You expect me to believe that there isn't anyone at that party, or in this hotel, that wouldn't sell her soul to give you a place to lay your head… and whatever else you bring with you?" She knew that he wasn't the righteous road virgin he played to the press, none of them were. It didn't matter to her, as long as they were on time and straight when they needed to be, and didn't knock up some mayor's daughter.

The dark, disheveled head dropped forward, then snapped up again. "You are a cruel and evil-minded woman, you know that? I do _not_ need a night of rock-star sex and morning-after awkward. I need to _crash_."

Bonnie forced herself not to smile, and looked him up and down. "Okay, come in. Wouldn't do for anyone to see you begging outside my door." She stepped aside to let him in and added, "Though I could have some _real_ fun with the press."

"Cruel, _evil_ minded…" he muttered under his breath, as he dragged into the room. "Which one's yours?"

"The one you don't have to clean off," she indicated her suitcase and a few other things on the king sized-bed nearest the door. When Mike began swiping things to the floor Bonnie jumped in to restrain him.

"All right, all right, I'll take care of it!"

Mike sat down hard on the love seat in the corner and pulled off his boots as Bonnie got her stuff organized on the luggage rack and in the closet. She turned down the bed with a flourish. "There."

Heaving himself from the love seat, Mike trudged across the room and draped a casual arm around Bonnie where she stood by the bed.

"Y'know," he mused, his usual drawl exaggerated by exhaustion, "for a cruel, _evil_-minded yes-woman tool of the Powers That Be, you ain't half bad."

When he smiled down at her, _sans_ shades for once, Bonnie felt caught out. Nesmith wasn't a big smiler, but when he did, there was _something_ … something she absolutely should ignore at two in the morning when her brain wasn't firing on all cylinders. She stepped back and pushed him to sit down. "Same to you… not half bad, for a picker who didn't read the fine print and can't stop playing the buyer's remorse riff."

He half-sneered, but the attitude was ruined by an enormous yawn.

"Nighty-night, Nesmith," Bonnie said quietly, managing not to laugh. And impulsively bent to kiss Mike on the forehead. He saw it coming, and tipped his face up to catch her mouth with his own. This time lasted a little longer than the first, and this time Bonnie felt his hands move to her waist as if to hold her still, long fingers pressing lightly. But still not insistent. And goddammit, she _still_ thought it was pretty okay. She was barely aware of pressing her hand to the side of his face.

This did not make sense, not even a little bit.

Bonnie straightened up a bit and withdrew her hand. Where was this coming from? And why didn't it feel _weird_? There had never been a hint of sexual radar between them, nothing "between them" at all except their easy, spontaneous conversations.

"I don't get it," she told him honestly.

Mike licked his lips and shrugged. "Me neither. Nighty-night, Morris." He stretched out on his side and shut his eyes, so Bonnie went to her bed and did likewise.

* * *

><p>Someone was shaking her… no, something was moving the king-sized bed. Who needed a bed this big… and who was making it <em>move<em>? Bonnie felt a hand on her shoulder and slapped it away. She opened her eyes and saw someone kneeling over her. The someone ducked as she swung again.

"Hey, _easy_ it's just me," he caught her wrist when she launched a roundhouse toward his head. "_Jesus _will you stop it…" Pinning one hand, he dodged the other and shook her roughly, "_Wake_ _up_ will you?"

Finally she jerked awake and sat bolt upright. "Nesmith! What the hell are _you_ doing here? Now he had both her wrists in a vise grip. "Lemme go!"

"Okay, if you promise not to pound me." He let her go and sat back cautiously on his heels, peering at Bonnie in the dark to see if she was coherent yet. "Gig, party in my suite, burnout, place to crash… remember?"

The fog was clearing, but she still didn't understand. "Uh, okay, sure… but why'd you wake me up? I _hate_ being waked up suddenly."

"No kiddin'… look, you woke _me_ up, you were making these freaky whimpering sounds, I figured you were having some nightmare. Didn't know I'd be takin' my life in my hands." He reached up to the headboard and switched on the reading light. "You okay now?"

She blinked in the light, and looked at Mike. His hair was crazy and he'd taken off the ruffled shirt, and was kneeling on the bed wearing just his dress pants and socks.

No reason not to tell him, especially since she'd tried so hard to knock his block off. "Had a dream I get sometimes about work… no big deal." Mike seemed to be waiting for something. "What?"

"I know work's a drag sometimes, but does it always make you cry?" Before she could deny it, he reached out one long forefinger and picked up a tear on his calloused fingertip to prove it. "But if you say you're okay, I'm not gonna pry." Contrary to the words, he continued watching her. "Sittin' right here," he said as if she couldn't see him, "not pryin'."

Embarrassed, Bonnie shifted a little and admitted, "Okay, I get these dreams where… don't laugh okay? My typewriter breaks and suddenly I can't get anything done. Stupid, right? Like we don't have the money for a new one. Anyway, one thing leads to another and I get fired because Bob finds out I'm a fraud."

"He'd dig that, Bob's whole _scene _is a fraud. "

Without knowing exactly why, Bonnie leaned forward and insisted, "No, I mean I _lied_. I never worked with music. All the other stuff was real, but not that, not exactly."

Mike dropped down cross-legged, facing her with a solemn expression. "Confess, my child."

"Forget it, it's late."

He peered at his watch. "Nah, now it's early. You started the story, you gotta finish it."

"Says who?"

"Says me. You owe me, you tried to punch my lights out. Pete'll be _so_ disappointed when I tell him you copped out on peace and love."

There they sat opposite each other in the middle of the huge bed, Bonnie half-tangled in bedclothes and Mike seated like a Zen master waiting for enlightenment. Bonnie gave up.

"Christ, okay, it can't get any weirder than this… fine. But you can't tell _anyone_, not the guys, not anyone."

He crossed his heart. "Hope to die." She didn't speak, so he got serious. "Morris, c'mon. You know you can trust me… if you didn't I'd be sleeping in the hall."

She nodded, a little shamefaced. "Okay. Some friends from before I came here, they faked a few music business references. I had this friend, Benny, in New York. He played guitar. No, that doesn't do it justice. You just can't imagine how it sounded.."

Mike was smiling, a little too smugly for Bonnie's taste. "Oh, I think I can..."

She nailed him with hard look. "No, you can't. He could make a low-rent Martin sing like your Gretsch 12. One-hand harmonics, airs and flourishes, low rumbles and high twangs, he would put you to shame. Wrote it all himself, not songs, just tunes, I used to tease him that he sold his soul like that blues guy."

Intrigued, but still lost, Mike interjected, "Robert Johnson."

"Yeah, him. Anyway Benny and me and other friends would hang at the coffeehouses in the Village, and he'd play every open hoot and every subway platform he didn't get chased off of. He was _serious_, he wanted to do this for his life, not just his living. I was temping in business offices and was good with words, so I helped him write up some promo stuff, do posters, things like that, and get some more notice."

"Sounds groovy. He record anything?"

Bonnie ignored the question and continued so she could finish it quickly. "So he got a call from some friends in North Carolina, and went down to work with them. We were out of touch for almost a year, which was okay because we were that kind of friends, relaxed, you know? Called once in a while, a letter once in a while. Just about when I was deciding I was looking for somewhere and something different, he called to tell me they'd got hooked up with someone with some good recording equipment and were gonna do a demo tape, finally! So far nothing he'd done existed anywhere but thin air." Here she stopped, and smiled, and looked directly at Mike, who was listening politely, if not exactly engrossed. He'd expected something a little more straightforward.

"Last time I heard from him he'd called to say, 'hey listen to this one' and he put down the phone and just played. He promised to send me a copy."

"So I guess he helped with the 'big lie' too, huh?" Mike laughed.

Bonnie's smile disappeared. "A couple weeks after that one of his band mates called. Their cheap shit VW bus blew a tire on the way to some nothing gig, and rolled. Benny and the drummer didn't make it. Not too long after, I saw the Raybert ad for an assistant to the producer for a music TV show… I don't remember where, one of the piles of papers I read. And I thought, okay, California is as far away as I need to get right now to start over, it's not like I was running away, I was looking to move on anyway. So to add to my real references I called the coffeehouses and I called the contacts in North Carolina, and voilá. A fake job helped get me a fake-job. Sometimes I dream about getting found out, and in the dream I try to find the demo tape to prove it. But, you know…" She'd been staring down at the fancy comforter. The light touch of Mike's fingers against the back of her hand brought her back to the here and now, and she looked up to see the familiar brown eyes staring deep, his expression wide open.

"Never was one…" he finished for her.

She nodded. "Yeah, and that's what was the hardest thing, _is_ the hardest thing… people live and people die and there's no fair or unfair to that, and we had the kind of friendship with no leftover regrets, but knowing nobody would ever _hear_ that magic sound, that music he made from himself, nobody else would ever get to hear it, it's just _wrong_, _that's_ unfair." She huffed a breath, and tried to shrug it off. "So there you go. My dark secret and recurring dream. Your turn."

* * *

><p>Mike looked at Bonnie as if she'd just slapped him out of a trance. "Huh? <em>My<em> turn?"

"Well c'mon, you have something on me that can get me canned. Your turn to reveal some dark secret. Like, you stole the money for your first guitar, or you copied the tune for your first song from somebody else. Or you really _don't _know how to play a note… nah, not that one."

Mike was staring at her as if she were speaking Swahili. "I told you, you can trust me. You okay?"

When was the last time anyone had asked, and meant it? Weariness overcame her then, and she teared up, "Yeah, just worn out. Dumbo dream caught me at a weak moment, they happen once in a while but nobody hears about it."

"Well maybe somebody should, once in awhile." Then the fingers that had lightly brushed hers were wiping a few tears from her face.

He looked so serious, so _earnestly _direct, that it scared her a little. "I'm really not a train wreck waiting to happen," Bonnie insisted.

"I know. C'mere, Morris," he invited, "you've earned a little somethin' whether you need it or not." She leaned against his shoulder, and the hug he gave her felt better than she could have fantasized (even though she hadn't).

"We're neither of us right for this job, looks like." Mike told her, "Your secret's safe with me."

"Thanks." She tried to sit up, but he held on.

"S'okay, sugar, just stay right here for a minute." She felt his hands (god he had beautiful hands, when he was playing she couldn't take her eyes off of them) moving lightly on her back. "I'm tired of being pissed off about the show, about making it by faking it, it wears me out but it's too late to backtrack now. I need a chance to be nice and reasonable, but nothing in me has been nice and reasonable for a long time now. Cost me a wife, I don't want it to cost me any more." He lifted Bonnie's head and framed her face with his hands. "Tonight after the gig, I was pissed off, and tired of it, and there you were, all nice and reasonable-looking, and I thought 'I'd like me some of that'."

"What if I'd smacked you?"

"Thought you might," he bent his head and gave her another soft, slow kiss, then another on her cheek. She could feel a sigh of breath, "aah" against her ear. "Glad you didn't."

Groping her way back to reality, Bonnie pulled back and moved away. "I _told_ you I'm no groupie."

"And I told _you_ that's not what I was lookin' for."

"Then why the seduction act?" It was as if she'd pushed a hidden button.

Mike jumped off the bed and backed away, gesturing with both hands, eyes wide, and declared irritably, "Baby, I don't _need _to 'seduce' em, I just need to pick one for the night. Or two or three, when I'm feelin' energetic."

"Then why the hell do you keep _doing_ that to _me?_"

He knew exactly what she meant.

"Why do you keep _letting_ me if it's so damn distasteful?" His angry drawl drew out some syllables and cut off others, so what emerged was "dayum distay-st-f'l".

"I don't know!" she shouted at him.

"_Well neither do I!_" He threw himself onto the other bed and stretched out, arms crossed behind his head.

* * *

><p>"God<em>damn,<em> Morris. If I wanna get _laid_ I just gotta wink. If I wanna just _be_…"

He sat up suddenly and pointed hard at Bonnie. "You know, in the past six months I've had some of the best fucks of my _life_ without ever sayin' a word or knowin' a name, or payin' a dime. My _dick_ is havin' a high old time, but you know what I think about as soon as I wipe it off and zip it up again? What a pain in the ass it is not to find that kind of relief with my pants _on_. Just a little space to _be_, not to be famous or be wantin' something I don't have yet. Somewhere I can be selfish and not get roasted in the press for it… that's it, I need space where 'selfish' is a virtue because it's just _being_ and talking and thinking just to think, hopefully something that lasts longer than it takes to screw some teenager who'll want my autograph when I'm finished with her."

Through his tirade, Bonnie sat wide-eyed as if nailed in place. She'd heard plenty about his flameups, even from him, but this was pretty raw. She wasn't scared, exactly, just… uncertain.

"I don't know what to say," she ventured at last.

"That could be why… and shit, don't ask me 'why what'. _Why… _why there's a hundred random conversations that go nowhere, always between the same two people. Why I _dig_ that they go nowhere, that it doesn't matter where they end up as long as they keep going."

It made sense, the way he said it. The view from his side was different from hers, but where they met in the middle was the same for both of them. She wanted it to keep going, too.

"You got a way with words, Nesmith."

He flopped back on the bed again. "Hope it's good for somethin' more than two tracks an album and every other B side."

Bonnie crawled out of bed and went to sit next to him.

"Okay, I don't know why I 'let' you. I know why I didn't _stop_ you, but that doesn't make any sense at all. I don't guess I know 'why' any of it, but something makes it, you, me, whatever, feel like… I dunno, like life without the hard parts." Exactly too late she realized how that sounded, given the first part of his tirade.

"There's a song in there somewhere," he said slyly, "but it won't be by Boyce and Hart." Then he smiled that rare smile again, and reached a hand up to pull Bonnie's face down to his. This time she kissed him first, lingering on his lower lip and finishing near the edge of a long sideburn. When she sat up again he was still smiling.

"What?"

"Morris, nobody would ever believe it could be so satisfyin' not to know what the _hell_ is going on. Now either go back to bed before I do something you won't regret, or c'mere and let me do it."

Though she was sorely tempted, Bonnie hesitated. Mayors' daughters weren't the only ones she didn't want getting knocked up.

"Uhm, unless you've got something in your pocket besides a spare pick, I'm gonna politely decline ."

Mike's eyes widened as he got her drift.

"Dayum, " he drawled, "looks like we're even at zero again. Well, come on down here and get some sleep, anyway." When Mike extended an arm in invitation, Bonnie lay down next to him and smiled as he turned on his side to face her.

"You know how long it's been since I woke up to a face I didn't wanna run from?" Mike asked her.

"Too long, right?"

"Nope." He kissed her again, and settled her head on his shoulder. "Just long enough."

* * *

><p>They slept loosely tangled together in the middle of the bed that was big enough to get lost in. Just before 10 a.m. Mike managed to get up without waking Bonnie, and put on his shirt and boots. Before he left he leaned over her where she lay, and ran the edge of his lace cuff along her cheek. She grimaced in her sleep and swatted at it.<p>

"Missed me again, deadeye," he whispered with a smile.

He closed the door quietly as he left, hung the "Do Not Disturb" sign from the knob, and crept back to the band's four-bedroom suite. As he'd guessed, the place was 100%Grade A party-trashed, blinds drawn, silent as a tomb. On the way to his room he crossed paths with Davy, who was stumbling from his own bedroom en route to the bathroom. Aside from eyes the color of an L.A. sunset Davy didn't look too much the worse for wear, but then he'd always been more of a lover than a drinker. Beyond the door could be seen a motionless body in his bed, half-covered by satin sheets.

"Some party, man," Mike whispered, jerking his thumb back at the ruined living area. Davy yawned and nodded.

"Could say that. Just getting in, I see." The baby-faced Englishman tipped a knowing wink. "Get lucky, mate?"

Mike clapped Davy lightly on the shoulder. "Better than lucky, man," he assured, then smiled to himself as he closed his door behind him, "even, at zero."


End file.
